


An Education

by Archadian_Skies



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexuality, Communication, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, First Love, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Polyamory, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archadian_Skies/pseuds/Archadian_Skies
Summary: Benedict Bridgerton is sure of himself- second son of Edmund and Violet Bridgerton, with the hopes of one day nurturing his secret artistic leanings into a fully fledged career.Benedict Bridgerton is unsure of himself- smudged charcoal and sloppy lines, under the soulful eyes of Sir Henry Granville, yearning for something he cannot even place into words.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/Genevieve Delacroix, Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville, Benedict Bridgerton/Lord Wetherby, Benedict Bridgerton/Lucy Granville, Henry Granville/Lord Wetherby
Comments: 19
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks Julia Quinn and Chris Van Dusen I'll take it from here; it takes a disaster bi to write a disaster bi after all.

There is comfort to be found in the flickering candlelights of his studio, in the way the warmth is reflected by the brass on the sconces and bathes everything in a soft sepia tone that somehow feels both real and unreal. It's a world apart from the harsh light of day where everything is out for all to see under such intense scrutiny. Or perhaps that last glass of port after a night spent downing many glasses of wine and a fine cigar wasn’t such a grand idea. 

“When did you manage to stumble to bed?” Lucy pokes her head into his room, hair still wound in rags and not yet in an elaborate updo for the day. She nods to the servant as he takes his leave, waiting for him to close the door behind him before she pounces onto the bed and tucks herself at his side.

“I lost track of time entertaining the Bridgerton boy.” Henry rubs his eyes, turning his head so the sunlight isn’t pouring directly onto his face and burning him blind.

“Bridgerton boy?” Lucy echoes, interest piqued. Shifting to sit up a little, he pulls a pillow over and props it behind his back before starting to tug at one of her rags. 

“Benedict, the second son.” Her hair is soft and smells lightly of sandalwood, and he loves the way it seems to slip between his fingers like silken ribbons. “He had some scathing critique for my work at Somerset and I found myself wondering if he had work of his own.”

“Has he?” Lucy rests her head on his chest, fingers toying with the placket of his sleep blouse. 

“Not yet. He has the soul of an artist. He just needs to be nurtured into one.” He pulls at another rag, carefully tugging it loose so another spiral of her hair unfurls. Soon her maid will pile it up into a pretty updo and he’s never quite figured out how. Some sort of magic, certainly, lovely and intricate as it is. 

“Will you invite him to your party?” 

“To _our_ party?” He corrects with a small grin she returns with a giggle smudged into his chest. 

“I’d like to meet him. If he’s caught your eye, then he certainly cannot be an ordinary man.” 

“Oh, my dear.” Henry chuckles. “There is no such thing as an ordinary Bridgerton.”

* * *

There’s muffled revelry behind that door, and Benedict finds himself feeling _giddy_ of all things. It swings open and there is Sir Henry Granville down to his blouse laid open at his throat, nary a waistcoat nor jacket to be seen let alone a cravat. 

“Bridgerton! I am so glad you came.” He smiles and Benedict reflects his smile enthusiastically.

“Oh I dare not miss it.” It’s the truth, it’s all he’s looked forward to, desperate to escape the chaos of wedding planning that’s consumed the house as of late. He trails Henry inside, the revelry rousing into a roar as the door closes at his back, shutting out the rest of the world. 

“Make yourself at home.” Henry gestures, grin sly as a fox without an ounce of regret despite his apologetic tone. “I would show you around but host duty calls.” Two buttons, the artist has two buttons freed on his blouse and Benedict can see the faint shadow of hair curling on his exposed chest and he catches himself staring a moment longer than a fleeting glance as Henry turns away.

The last time he was here, he only saw the studio and so his feet trace that familiar path. He passes by a room of women in tantalising Grecian garb, dancing and swaying, lost in the rapture of the moment. Further down the hallway he passes both men and women adorned in painted cosmetics unseen on any respectable member of the Ton. Rouged cheeks and painted lips and coloured dust on eyelids traced in charcoal, on gentlemen and ladies alike; libertines the lot of them.

He finds the studio, and this time it’s a male model posing for the artists. His back is to the door, and Benedict becomes riveted, watching his muscles flex as he raises a wine glass to his lips to take a drink before returning to his statuesque pose. He is fit, muscles corded all over a body belying some sort of athleticism and he cannot make himself turn away, staring at the pale colour of his skin against the dark fall of his longer than appropriate hair.

“What are you doing here?” A voice breaks through the reverie and he turns to find a woman, rich brown skin and supple bosom nearly spilling out of her corset. Her blouse is around her shoulders like a shawl, baring her chest openly, framed by the ringlets spilling from her updo. Her eyes are smudged with black and her lips stained with wine and the promise of improper behaviour. He is a Bridgerton, she knows this, though it doesn’t seem to bear much allure to her as it does with others. Still, his family name has her attention, and he now has her mouth on his, hands on him, and he’s pleased with this turn of events. She tastes like wine and improper behaviour and he wants to drink her in.

They fumble down the staircase, shedding clothing in their wake and he paws around for a door, hoping to take her into a more private setting. She lets go of his hand as he reaches to turn the doorknob, pushing open the door to reveal two men locked in a passionate tangle- one of whom is Henry himself. He meets his startled gaze, holds it for a moment longer than a fleeting glance before Henry suckles the column of his lover’s throat, hands gripping his back hard enough the flesh reddens beneath his fingers as his lover pants and moans in approval. He is not meant to be seeing this. Benedict pulls the door closed, slumping against the doorframe, mind reeling as he tries to process what he just saw. Henry Granville, a gentleman, artist, libertine- and one who desires men intimately. 

“Bridgerton.” The woman whispers, crooking her finger from where she’s sitting on a chaise lounge with another beautiful woman in a chinoiserie silk robe. He’s scarcely seated before the woman draws him in for a kiss. She smells of sandalwood and incense, and it fills his nose and muddles his mind. He doesn’t even know their names but he’s getting to know their mouths as they trade him back and forth between them almost like a plaything and it’s that realisation that goes straight between his legs. A hand palms his obvious bulge and he groans into a kiss, unable to discern whose hand that is and not caring who it belongs to anyway. He drinks his fill of them, would drink more if he could but there’s a curfew to keep. Self-imposed as it is, he’d still rather avoid having to explain his whereabouts to his mother were he not to keep it. There’s a wedding in the works, and he can’t bring scandal to the family when Daphne is set to marry the Duke of Hastings in a couple of days. 

The walk home does nothing, the cold crisp air does nothing, it is as though he were still at that party with the air heavy with music and cigar smoke and conversation. In truth, it is as though he were still in that hallway, standing in that doorway, watching Henry and his faceless lover. Most of the servants are still awake, busy with the wedding preparations but he waves them away when a few turn to aid him. They have far too much on their plates to be dealing with his personal crisis.

Slumping against his bedroom door, he scrambles to undo his hastily knotted cravat, removing the clothes he had donned right before his departure having removed them prior to that departure when he was busy entertaining two very beautiful ladies on that rather luxurious chaise. And still, they are not the ones clouding his thoughts, not their copper burnished skin nor their plump lips against his, no he is still thinking of the lust in Henry’s eyes, the ecstasy on his face as his lover writhed against him. Shucking off his boots and trousers, Benedict scrambles onto the bed and dives under the sheets, feeling all of fifteen again, hard and desperate and wanting. He hasn’t felt this way, this lost and adrift, floundering to anchor himself somewhere.

It’s women, it’s always been women, it _has_ to always be women that is how it works isn’t it? He knows his way between a woman’s legs, he knows how to give pleasure, how to sheath himself into her and thrust until the pleasure crests into white hot bliss. How does it work, then, with a man? With Henry? God, no, he can’t- Benedict buries his face in a pillow, turning to lie on his stomach. He’s hard, cock pressed up flush against his body, wet tip smearing his navel. How does it work? He wants to know, God he wants to know, and he finds himself rutting against the sheets in desperation. He thinks of Henry at the studio, his hand on his shoulder, his easy smile, that twinkle in his eyes. He thinks of how candlelight makes the silver threads in his hair glow, he thinks about the wisps of hair peeking above the open collar of his blouse. He thinks of Henry’s lust-blown eyes widening with shock and he wants it to be him, he wants to be that faceless man, he wants to be rutting up against Henry, replacing whoever that man is, taking his place and reaching that crest with him instead. Benedict gasps, biting the pillow to muffle his sounds of pleasure as he speeds up his thrusts. Henry, he thinks, Henry _Henry_ -

“ _Henry_ -!”

* * *

“Good morning m’lady.” 

“Good morning Wesley.” Lucy smiles sleepily, standing aside as the valet leaves her husband’s room. “Might you send for breakfast to be brought to Henry’s room?”

“Of course, m’lady.” He bows deeply before walking down the hall. She waits a few more seconds before closing the door and bouncing onto the large bed, smiling when she sees Henry already sitting up, wide awake.

“I’m having them bring breakfast up here.” Lucy declares, pecking his cheek as she siddles up beneath the covers. “That Bridgerton boy is the most wondrous kisser, he’s just so passionate and-”

“He saw.” Henry’s voice breaks, and the words die in her throat. 

“What?” She asks but she already knows. The expression on his face is a brave one, but she already knows. “Ned-”

“I was the one facing the door, not him. His identity is still a secret.” Henry shudders a sigh, rubbing his temples with one hand shading his eyes. Too late though, because she’s already seen the tears gathering in them.

“Darling…” She sucks in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “You’re an excellent judge of character. He will not ruin you. He is a good man.”

“A good man would ruin me, that’s exactly what society would tell him to do. He would bring to light how unnatural I am, how disgusting and improper my behaviour.” He clenches his hands into fists, and Lucy gently rests her hands over them.

“He left all that back in Mayfair, isn’t that what you said?” Lucy soothes, sweeping his hair away from his face and Lord does she love him. This man who gave her her freedom away from a controlling father and anxious mother. It isn’t husbandly love, but it’s still love. A better love, somehow, because he knows her and she knows him and there are no secrets between them- only trust. “He has an artist’s soul. You’ve brought him into our world and I believe he will not want to leave it anytime soon.”

“At least Ned is safe.” Henry wraps an arm around her waist, drawing her to curl against his chest. “I am sorry my dear. I did not think it would happen so soon.”

“But you’ve always warned me it could happen, which is more than what most of London’s wives could say.” Lucy swallows the rising dread back down. She is brave, and so is he. They will weather this together. “Still, though, I do believe Benedict Bridgerton will not be so cruel.”

“We shall see, my love.” Henry sighs and it’s an exhausted sigh, the sigh of a weary man walking to the gallows. “And quite soon too- his sister is to be wed, and we are invited to attend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fancy Henry and Lucy to have a very Black Sails Thomas and Miranda vibe. ~~Please watch Black Sails it's better than this show.~~  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord Wetherby has no assigned name in the show, so I'm calling him Edward or 'Ned' for short, as his actor's name is Ned Porteous.

The mark on the crook of his shoulder blooms like a snapdragon, all smudged purples and pinks and as delicate to touch as a blossom’s petals. There’s another not far from it, right over his collarbone. He smiles at his reflection, fingers tracing the marks carefully as he remembers how they were created. If he closes his eyes he fancies he can still feel Henry’s mouth closing over his skin, suckling the colours into being, as though his entire body were a blank canvas for the artist to play with. 

“The blue or the, err, light purple, sir?” Hollingsworth’s voice cuts through his musings, and Ned opens his eyes to find his valet standing by with two dresscoats for him to choose from. 

“I wore the sapphire one to the promenade yesterday, I’ll wear the taupe one to the wedding today.” 

“Very well, sir.” The chosen dresscoat is laid on the bed before the other is returned to his wardrobe. 

“Light brown paisley waistcoat, and the light gold cravat to match.” He instructs as he pulls on a clean blouse to hide the evidence of Henry’s hands all over him. “The brown trousers, not black.” 

“At once, sir.” 

Perhaps one day he won’t be donning colours and attending a reception for someone else. Perhaps he will be donning black tails and attending a reception that is his own. In a different life, in a different time, maybe he could marry Henry. Maybe in that life, in that time, Henry wouldn’t have had to marry Lucy, and could have married him instead. 

“Were you successful yesterday?” His mother stands in the doorway, eyes roving head to toe as she appraises his outfit. “Lady Egglesfield has two fine daughters and she thinks you a ‘charming young man’ well suited to her family. Mary is apparently quite the reader.”

“No, mother.” Ned turns back to his reflection, running a hand through his hair and thinking of Henry gripping it with one hand as the other scratches welts across his back.

“Lady Cowper and her daughter Cressida are to be at the reception.” She steps into his arm and he pointedly fusses over his waistcoat to avoid her gaze. “You’ve been seen with her too. Have you sent her flowers?”

“No, mother.” He says again, a little more forcefully this time. He catches her gaze in the mirror, trying not to wince when she presses her lips into a tight, disapproving line.

“What are you doing? Wasting everyone’s time?” She sighs, rubbing her temples. “Is this to go anywhere, or will you let a fine candidate slip through your fingers? That family has money and standing, and the girl may have the countenance of an ice queen but she is perfectly learned and polished.”

“I am yet young, mother.” Ned reminds her. “I do not wish to rush into anything. If I am to marry, I want to be sure it will be a pleasant domestic life for the both of us.”

“Marriage is a transaction, a business arrangement, Edward. You are not out there to find a friend, you are out there to find a wife and produce an heir.” There’s something terse in her voice, something forced in order to restrain something else; the truth. Her truth, perhaps. He cares for neither. 

“I want both, mother.” He selects a purple fob edged in gold, folding it over the waistband of his trousers in place of looking at her. “I want to be friends  _ and _ married. I do not want whatever it is you and father have. I do not want to be strangers in the same house.” 

“You are a foolish boy.” She says but there’s no malice in it, only sorrow, and it causes him to finally turn away from the mirror and look at her properly; an ageing distant woman trying to make the best of her position and ensure her son does the same. 

“Yes, mother.” Ned takes her hands in his, squeezing them in contrition, in some semblance of fondness. “I am foolish and hiding behind my youth. But I’d like to think I am kind, too, and genteel the way you have taught me to be.”

There is a moment here, trapped in honey and suspended in sweetness; they are not often like this and so he savours it, the vulnerability in her bright blue eyes which he inherited and the uncertain smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She pulls her hands away and just like that, the moment is gone.

“You would do well to steer clear of licentious parties.” The disapproving frown is back, no trace of the smile left on her stern face. “Rowell told me you went to see that artist again. You know what they say about the questionable company he is rumoured to keep.”

Ned finds he has no energy to reply to that, and so he leans forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek in parting. “I’m off to the wedding now, mother. Farewell.”

* * *

There’s something sorrowful about an empty studio, though he really shouldn’t feel morose about it seeing as its emptiness is entirely his fault. He just cannot bring himself to put charcoal to paper and create, not while his stomach feels so queasy still. Trying to work on one of his commissions proved disastrous too, with all the colours looking ruddy and sallow and not at all the vibrant palette he strives toward. Using the Duke’s wedding reception as the excuse for cancelling the sessions, Henry had cited the need to sobriety for propriety’s sake. 

Still, though, still he sits at his easel and looks over at that empty spot where Benedict sat not too long ago, and he feels two things at once- yearning, and fear. 

“He hasn’t said anything.” Lucy stands in the doorway, loose robe pulled over her underpinnings, the beginnings of a lovely updo in the works on her head. “I truly believe him a good man who will not ruin you.”

He says nothing to that, standing to cross the room and draw her into his arms. He wants to believe her, and yet uncertainty continues to gnaw at his gut. His entire future hangs on a thread and that Bridgerton boy holds the scissors. If he is exposed he will lose everything- his title, his reputation, his livelihood and perhaps even his very life. He will make Lucy deny it all, though, he will spare her despite her protests; he will not drag down another if he is to fall. There is money for her in a trust, squirreled away in case their world falls apart; one last way for him to protect her. She is too lovely a woman to be crushed underfoot by this wretched society. 

Trailing her to her room, he lets her distract him with her choice of dress for the event- a lovely thing wrought of silk satin the colour of pink carnations. He waves her maid away for the moment, helping her into the garment himself. She’s saying things, chattering about the guest list and he’s only half listening and she only half means it to distract him from his melancholy and he supposes this is why he loves her so. The colour of the dress is exquisite against her warm brown skin and he promises to himself that he shall paint her in it as a gift.

“Henry.” Her voice is soft and somehow strong all at once, her touch reassuring on his cheek. “We’ll be alright, love.” A pause to gather his composure from the floor, a slight brush beneath his eye to swipe away a tear that surely never existed. “Wear that lovely white cravat, the one with the painted black leaves. I think that will look quite handsome against your favourite raspberry coat.”

“A fine choice.” His own voice sounds foreign to him with the way it trembles slightly, but there’s enough resolve in there to fabricate a facade of bravery. He will heft it in front of him and use it as a shield both to hide behind, and protect Lucy. It’s the least he can do. 

* * *

There’s something not quite real about all this; he is dressed in formal blacks and his sister is in white and only days ago they were both standing in a field watching their eldest brother and the Duke of Hastings in a very illegal duel. Now Daphne stands by the Duke’s side and he is seated on a pew beside Colin, with Anthony and their mother in front, and Eloise and Hyacinth and Gregory behind. It’s happening right this second but it’s as though his mind still has yet to catch up, still tripping over its feet. Daphne makes for a lovely bride with her regal posture and he knows she will make for a wonderful Duchess because their mother has groomed her to be a perfect bride. 

He can feel Eloise’s apprehension, can see her see that otherwise invisible clock ticking away. Now that Daphne has married, it will be her turn next and he knows now, he understands her terror in a way he’d never bothered to consider before. He has the luxury of marrying when it suits him, or never, if he so pleases. It would bring his mother heartache, but it wouldn’t ruin him the way it would ruin Eloise, nor would it stain the rest of the family like spilled wine on a white tablecloth. Benedict reaches back briefly, and Eloise grips his hand like a drowning man, squeezing tightly as if to anchor herself to him, as though he were a lifeline to her. He thinks of their talks on the swing, their secret cigarettes at night and how they both yearn for more than what society has told them to be. He can be more. He can be bold. He must be, he vows, for them both.

“A most enjoyable party.” The smile on Henry’s face is just shy of genuine, but Benedict returns it all the same. 

“Indeed.” 

“Um, Bridgerton… Um…” Henry stammers, and he can see it, he can see genuine fear in those eyes that seemed so full of easy confidence at the studio. “The other night-” And it clicks, it  _ clicks _ for Benedict in an almost shameful way as he finally realises the gravity of the situation. So caught up in his turbulent feelings, he’d completely neglected to think of the implications of his discovery. The power to ruin Henry Granville’s life has been on his tongue since that very night.

“What happened the other night?” Benedict feigns innocence. “I do not believe anything happened at all.” The relief is instant, washing over Henry’s face and removing all traces of anxiety. 

“Very well.” The twinkle is back, that spark in those eyes that captivated Benedict at the studio and despite all the other people present that night, it had felt as though it were only the two of them and no one else. “Ah, dearest. I believe you know Mr. Bridgerton?”

A woman slides into view just as he takes a sip of wine. It’s  _ that _ woman, the woman on the chaise lounge with the silk chinoiserie robe. 

“My wife, Mrs. Lucy Granville.” He nearly chokes, swallowing thickly as he tries to hide his surprise. It’s not that he didn’t know Sir Granville had a wife- he’d said as much when Benedict insulted his work at Somerset. It’s just that Benedict hadn’t realised the woman in the silk chinoiserie robe, the one whose mouth had been on his, whose hands had roamed his body, and Mrs. Granville happens to be the same person. 

“It is a pleasure, Mr. Bridgerton.”  _ Pleasure _ she says, because yes they’ve already met and yes it had been a pleasure. Benedict gulps down a mouthful of wine to bury his panic. It doesn’t work.

The Duke comes to the rescue, dashing as always.

“Sir Granville, a word if I may?” Oh, not to  _ his _ rescue then.

“Of course, your Grace.” Henry inclines his head politely, stepping away and leaving Benedict standing with Mrs. Lucy Granville. 

“You’re permitted to breathe, Mr. Bridgerton.” She teases lightly, fluttering her chartreuse fan in front of her coy face. It’s replaced with a far more sombre expression soon after. “He’s barely slept, you know, since that party. You could have ruined him. Or me. Or us.”

“I would not. I would  _ never _ .” 

“I know.” Lucy smiles, gentle and fond and knowing. “That’s what I told him.”

Benedict finishes the wine, and it sits in his stomach like vinegar. “The two of you are-”

“Best friends.” A laugh, another flutter of her feathered fan. “Each other’s equal in all ways but the bedroom. Henry rescued me from my family, and in a way I rescued him from his.” 

He’s floundering again, a drowning man with no anchor and she seems to see it, a flash of pity and perhaps affection on her lovely face. He doesn’t understand how such a partnership works, so used to a life wrapped up in the love between his father and mother, or that of a loveless pleasure sought in dalliances with no lasting connections. One or the other, never  _ this, _ never a partnership of equals under the guise of marriage between a man and a woman. 

“I love my husband, Mr. Bridgerton.” She looks over to where Henry is speaking with the Duke. “He is a good man, fighting against the trappings of society. No matter how hard he fights, how hard  _ we _ fight, I still wish things were different for all of us. And I know that is a sentiment you share.” 

Such sentiments, he thinks, extend to Eloise to encompass them both. 

He mulls it over still, as they head outside to bid their sister farewell on her new journey to Clyvedon and wedded life. Eloise tucks at his side, expression a mix of admiration and apprehension. With Daphne wedded, it means she is next and he knows now how she dreads being thrust under the scrutiny of society. He has the luxury not only of his status but of his sex too, and were she a brother of his, were she perhaps an Edward instead of an Eloise then it could be the two of them sneaking out to Henry’s parties and discovering an entirely different world and their place in it. Benedict can see her as a novelist, publishing witty stories of intrigue and mystery and adventure. She can still do such things, but under the guise of a false name and much secrecy; reading novels is still debated as being barely appropriate for ladies, let alone writing them. 

Eloise looks up at him, smile pinched and sorrowful before she slips away back inside. There’s a finality to her steps, with a certain resolve seen when one walks to the gallows. 

There is a gentleman he passes on the way back over to the Granvilles, in an eye-catching dresscoat of a soft powdered lilac. He is the only one wearing such a colour, dress palette more akin to the pastels of the ladies than the rich blues and reds of the other gentlemen. Their eyes meet, and Benedict fixates on the cobalt blue of his eyes framed by doe-like lashes. He is a handsome fellow, yes, but pretty somehow too. 

“Mr. Bridgerton.” The young man nods politely in greeting, and Benedict scrambles through his memory for a name as he realises belatedly he has been gawping openly at him like a child. 

“Mr. Wetherby.” He nods in return. “I hope you are enjoying the party?” Falling back on pleasantries feels safe enough, natural enough.

“Quite.” He smiles and Benedict feels his breath catch in his throat. “I saw you speaking with Sir Granville before. How do you know him?”

“I um,” the heat spreads in his cheeks, “I made some rather unsavoury comments about a painting of his at the new wing in Somerset. At the time I hadn’t realised it, since Lady Danbury seemed keen to join in the critique, that he was standing beside her. We met formally at the gentlemen’s club and he invited me to his studio.”

“A budding artist, Mr. Bridgerton?” Wetherby smiles again, though he swears there’s a hint of mischief in those stunning blue eyes. “You can do no better than to be tutored by Her Majesty’s artist.”

“I only hope I do not prove to be a waste of time.” He mutters under his breath, more for himself than for him to hear.

“Sir Granville has a keen eye for talent, Mr Bridgerton. If he has personally invited you, then he does not consider you a waste of time.” Another smile, softer and kinder this time. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Benedict steps aside to let him pass, eyes lingering on the slope of his shoulders and the fine almost military line of his back. 

“The Duke has commissioned me to paint a portrait of him and the Duchess.” Henry declares as he rejoins him with a somewhat dazed expression. “I am to begin once they return from their honeymoon.”

“You’re a royal painter, Sir Granville.” Benedict points out with a grin. “The Queen knighted you for it, why should you seem surprised the Duke would want to commission you?”

“Because, Mr. Bridgerton,” Henry huffs a laugh, “tis a surprise every time, to have others consider your talents worthy of monetary exchange. I am honoured to have been asked to paint your lovely sister and your new brother in law.”

He is a Bridgerton with status and money, and here is a man who elevated his status not via connections but by his own hand. Benedict has led a rather coddled life, he discovers, with nary a thought for those who work to earn a wage. Not that Henry would’ve been destitute, given he is a Granville son, yet at Eloise’s age Benedict never spared a thought to what could happen if he decided to pursue a craft. Henry and Lucy live in a world within a world, an entire secondary society he has barely dipped his toes in and one wherein he is desperate to drown himself. Suddenly the wedding reception seems a meaningless, frivolous affair and he has run out of the patience allocated to be spent. He wishes to be anywhere but here, and be anyone but a Bridgerton. 

“The evening is upon us and we must slip away.” Lucy appears at her husband’s side, one hand on his arm. “I am glad we got to talk, Mr. Bridgerton. I am glad to know we are on amicable terms.”

“May I walk with you?” He blurts, and the offer sounds ridiculous. Yes, the studio is within walking distance but Lucy is not unaccompanied, seeing as her husband will be walking home with her. “To um, to-”

“To discuss the portrait commission, for your dear sister.” Henry finishes with a barely controlled smile. 

“Yes. Exactly. Anthony has no care for the arts, and mama is most certainly exhausted both physically and emotionally.” Benedict nods rapidly. “So it falls to me.”

“That it does.” Henry chuckles. “Go tell your mother, and we shall make our farewell round.”

The evening air is still just on the sharper side of Spring, so it does wonders to clear his head. There’s something stifling about formal events, something stilted and tense about the way everything is a performance. If only parties were more like the ones held at the studio, though he dare not ever say such a thing aloud. His poor mother might just burn red from indignant fury and strangle him with her bare hands. Now there’s an amusing thought.

“Had enough of the party too, hm?” Lucy giggles, tugging her evening shawl tighter around her slender shoulders to ward away the chill. 

“Daphne and the Duke are already gone, what use is there for it to drag so long?” Benedict sighs tiredly. “It’s exhausting, don’t you think? It’s pleasant for a little while, until you run out of pleasantries.”

“So you’re escaping with a questionable artist and his wife?” Henry prompts.

“Yes.” He answers bluntly, and the pair laugh loudly. “My enthusiasm for these events always wanes faster than usual. It’s so exhausting, keeping up appearances.”

“I am flattered you feel like you can be yourself around us, then.” Henry says, with the tone of a confessor.

“I did not think I had a part of me I needed to hide, but these past few days have felt like an awakening.” Benedict says, and now he is the one confessing and it feels as though he were on a swing sharing a cigarette with Eloise and yearning for something more, something beyond the rigid box they were placed in. “There’s just so much more to life than what I’ve been taught. There’s so much the schools, the universities, fail to teach you.” 

“Not  _ fail _ to teach you,” Henry corrects sternly, “but  _ purposefully _ do not teach you.”

“Because society itself would crumble?” He says in half-jest, and Lucy laughs.

“Polite society would. And the rest of us would rise from the rubble.”

They talk about all manner of things the rest of the way,  _ except _ for the portrait, so Benedict hopes no one presses him for any fine details. A footman opens the door of the studio, a youthful man with golden blond hair and honey coloured eyes. 

“Do not worry, Francis. We’ll stumble on in. Off to bed with you, and tell Wesley I’ll tend to my own wardrobe, thank you.” Henry waves him away, and Benedict watches him leave. Now he’s run out of excuses and must return home. He stands in the doorway, and they look at him standing there and he welcomes their wandering gazes.

_ You can feel free to be yourself here. _ The words echo in his head and he knows now that Henry meant it sincerely. 

Lucy steps forward, now ungloved fingers brushing his hand. Tipping up on her toes, she presses a kiss to his lips. “Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Granville.” He whispers against her lips, before turning to Henry and nodding slightly. “Sir Granville.” The artist smiles, inclining his head.

“Benedict.” It sounds different, having his name spoken by him, different and precious. Benedict leans over before his good senses can stop him, and presses their mouths together. And then he does what any sensible, sane man would do after committing such an act.

He flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned wears such a beautiful outfit to the reception, which has been [giffed at my humble request by the talented [dailybridgerton].](https://archadianskies.tumblr.com/post/640346309168070657/bridgerton-2020-penelope-marina-and-lord)  
> Thank you, also, for everyone's enthusiastic support it's caught me a bit off guard and I'm ever so grateful for it <3 Stay tuned for more Bi Panic to come!

**Author's Note:**

> I have an [entire Drive of screenshots of their scenes](https://drive.google.com/drive/u/0/folders/1JsXbN_fFouMzNKL7z2rE-wMjVfidw5XT), please feel free to use them for reference like I do :)!  
> [I'm still on this hellsite.](https://archadianskies.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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